


Dinner Date

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Marriage, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt is taking Dom out to dinner, but he's behaving strangely. What is he up to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"How are you not ready yet?" he asks rhetorically as I stand in front of the mirror, and I can see the reflection of his foot shaking spastically in frustration, "you've been primping in front of that bloody mirror for the better part of an hour."

I lean back and turn my head a little so I can see him through the bathroom door as he sits, legs crossed, on the edge of the bed, and I do my best to ignore his glare, saying, in my best conciliatory voice, "Relax, love, there's plenty of time, you made the booking for seven, didn't you?"  
  
Yep, my man is taking me out to dinner.

He's having none of it, though. "Well, I've been ready for ages," he shoots back with a dismissive eye roll, "and we could be having a drink before dinner."

Let me put this situation into perspective for you: this is a man who has no concept of punctuality whatsoever, and whose idea of 'getting ready' is rolling around on the floor and wearing the first thing that sticks to him from the messy pile of clothes by his side of the bed.

I must admit, though, today he seems to have put in a bit of effort. Red shirt, tight black trousers, belt, shoes that actually don't look like he nicked them from a bum, hair nicely spiked up...

Hang on...

I do a double take and turn right around to squint at him from the door. Is he...

NAH!! Don't be stupid!

I squint some more.

Oh, cunting hell!!!

My eyes widen to saucer-like proportions. HE IS! My jaw drops. The little fucker is wearing eyeliner. No. Let me rephrase that. The little fucker is wearing SMUDGED eyeliner.

By this time he's looking at me with a suspicious frown, "What?" he asks, "do I have something on my face?"

I'LL SAY!!

I know better than to say that aloud, though, so I decide to play it cool. "You're wearing eyeliner!” I blurt out with a stupid smile on my face.

Yeah, man, way to play it cool.

In one of those fluid moves that never cease to amaze me when he pulls them off—seriously, he's widely known for his ability to trip over his own feet—he uncrosses his legs, pushes off the bed and is across the room in front of me before I've had time to catch my breath.

Placing his hands on my hips, he looks up at me, and oh dear god, he's blushing, and he looks so adorably shy and so sinfully fuckable that I don't know what to do with myself.

"You like?” he asks me, chewing on his lower lip.

Nope. I know what you're thinking; but you're wrong. He's not flirting or fishing for compliments. Well, not right now, anyway. Don't get me wrong, he can be an evil tease when he is in the right mood. But what we have right here, right now, is him at his most endearing: shy, insecure, soft. And genuinely wanting to know whether his efforts please me.

Do they what!

I smile fit to crack my face in two and nod enthusiastically, "I like."—hey! you can stop it with the judging. I admit it, it's not my most eloquent answer ever, but...

Oh, WOW! Never mind that.

He is beaming up at me, all sparkling, crinkling, deliciously smudged blue eyes, his very best smile up front and centre. And when I say his very best smile, I need to explain that even his everyday smile stops traffic, so this one stops my breathing dead in its tracks. With a deep breath to kick start me into, you know, breathing again, I bring my hands to his face and, drowning myself in the blue of his eyes, I say, "You look beautiful."

Right. You know how I said earlier that I got his very best smile? Nope, that wasn't it. He closes his eyes with a sigh, hands lifting to cover mine, and the way he smiles is so sweet and full of delight that it fairly breaks my heart. After a while of staring adoringly at him like an idiot, it occurs to me that it would be a far better idea to kiss the life out of him, because those lips of his look good enough to eat, and...

Oh, for fuck's sake, will you shut up and kiss him already?

I don't know what's gotten into me tonight. Yeah, I'm blond but I don't normally do ditzy. Well... not much, anyway. I swear to god, it must be the eyeliner.

Right. Kissing. On it.

I kiss him. Softly at first, but then with a growing hunger that borders on desperation, and my body, always yearning for him, flares up with desire at the way he responds, his lips hot and eager on mine, hands fisted in my hair.

I walk us to the bed and lay him down, stretching myself over him. My hands seek his skin under his shirt, and he moans into my mouth, arching against me, dropping his hands to cup my buttocks and pull me closer, and before we know it we are grinding into one another like desperate teenagers, filling the stillness of the bedroom with the sounds of our passion for one another. A crescendo of breath and whispered urgings that culminates in silent cries and finally tails off into the slowing pants and sighs of contented fulfillment.

After a brief moment of quiet, he starts giggling, and I look at him, eyebrow quirked up, "What's so funny?" The giggles become shaking laughter. OK. I'm hoping this is a 'laughing with me' kind of laughter, but you never know with him.

Eventually he calms down enough to become intelligible, and I have to admit that he has a point when he says between giggles, "All that faffing going to waste. Now you'll have to start all over again."

I chuckle at the way the random little freak's brain works. Yes, we'll both have to start all over again, there's no way we can go out (a) looking like this and, more importantly, (b) with drying come in our pants.

Great, now we're both giggling like loons. At this pace we'll never make it to the restaurant.

However, we manage a quick cleanup, change of lower body cladding, and yes, some extra faffing, including some fresh eyeliner for him, and we're good to go.

He fights me for the car keys, and I finally let him win when he tells me, sternly, "I'm taking you out, I drive." The man has a point. Under that gruff exterior lies a true romantic. With a kiss to his nose, I hand them over, "Drive us away, my prince." Of course, he spoils it by giggling and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Suck it up, princess."

God, I love the irreverent little sod!

We finally make it to the restaurant, and he turns heads as he walks to our table, my heart filled with pride that he chooses to be with me, this beautiful man who has owned my heart for over half of my life.

He smiles at me as he sits down, and all I want to do is ravish him right here on the lovely crisp white tablecloth. Giving my libido a right talking to, I sit the fuck down and make like I'm a civilised debonaire man of the world, instead of letting my inner caveman have his way.

I mostly succeed in my deception, and we chat about little domestic things, easily, comfortably, and make plans for our upcoming, and much looked forward to, stretch of no recording sessions, no interviews, no touring. I'm surprised he hasn't brought me up on the way I keep zoning out looking at him, though. There is something about him tonight. He glows, and I don't seem to be able to keep my eyes of him, often losing track of what I'm about to say, but he just smiles at me like I'm god's gift.

The meal goes by in a flash. If someone asked me what I had to eat, I wouldn't be able to give them a satisfactory answer. Dessert has made a mark, though; we are now sharing the most incredible profiteroles ever known to man.

Now, if you have an issue with schmaltz you may want to tune out for a bit. Because our dominant hands are linked across the table, and we are looking into one another's eyes while I feed bits if chocolatey creamy deliciousness into his mouth. I'm sorry. Yes. We are THAT couple.

The last drop of chocolate sauce thoroughly licked off the spoon, we both lean back on our chairs, equally satisfied expressions on our faces. After a few moments, with an uncertain smile and a look that, if I didn't know him, I'd think had its fair share of fear in it, he lets go of my hand to put it in his pocket.

I give him a quizzical look at this abrupt change in manner and, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head he squares his shoulders and, blushing furiously, puts his hand palm down back on the table, his eyes fixed on it like he's never seen it before. I have no idea what's going on, but I never miss an opportunity to touch him, so I cover his hand with mine, asking, "You ok?"

He nods, then looks up at me, bright eyes and flushed cheeks giving him a slightly fevered look. "Don't kill me, ok?" he says in a small voice, looking down again, and by this time I'm starting to get worried. All this dinner palaver... The way he's behaving... There's bad news coming my way.

I am the one with fear in his eyes now, and I'm about to ask him to put me out of my misery when he cuts me off mid-breath, "I'm sorry, I'm doing this all wrong." he says, rubbing furiously at his nose with his other hand, and I just sit here, waiting for the blow.

Suddenly, he takes a deep breath and leans forward, and I think, oh god, here we go. "You are my life," he says, hitting me with the full force of his glorious eyes, and my heart flip flops in my chest as he goes on, "and I can't bear the thought of living my life without you in it."

My brain is trying so hard to keep up that I have skid marks all over the inside of my skull. What?!?!? I hope I don't look as stupid as I feel, but I'm afraid that I have 'da fuq' written all over my face.

He turns his hand palm up then, and holds mine, and I frown as something hard presses against my skin. He freezes in place, not even breathing, and yes, there is fear again, but under it there's excitement, and hope, and a burning, searing love looking out of his eyes.

I roll my hand to one side and slowly, reluctantly, take my eyes off his to look down as his hand. And when I do, I see a simple silver ring with an etched geometric design sitting on it. I jump back as though I've been tasered and just stare at it, face blank with shock, shaking my head like a broken toy.

Oh, god help me! It's a ring. There is a fucking ring sitting on the palm of his hand. A ring. Oh, fuck me, he got me a ring! OH MY GOD, HE GOT ME A RING!!!!!

Ok, get a grip.

I look at him then, and his face is crumpling, eyes shining, with tears this time, and he closes his hand on the ring and pulls it off the table, whispering, "I'm sorry. I thought..."

YOU FUCKING MORON!!!! DO SOMETHING!!!

I scramble to get up, not caring where the chair ends up, and rush around the table to kneel by his side and put my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest and saying, "Oh, god, love, I'm sorry. I was just surprised, is all. Yes, yes, YES!! A thousand times yes!!!!"

Tentative hands thread through my hair and pull gently until I look up at him, "Yes?" he asks, incredulous hope in his eyes. I nod, letting go of the death grip on his waist to frame his face with my hands, "Yes." I whisper against his lips. Wild clapping surrounds us.

Oh, fuck me! I forgot we were in a public venue.

Right!

In one swift move, I get up, pull him to his feet, throw a heap of notes on the table, and, grabbing his hand, I walk us out of the restaurant, ignoring the cheers and catcalls from the other patrons.

Once we are outside, I pull him into my arms and kiss him until we are both panting for breath. "You'd better still have that ring." I say as we come apart, and he giggles, pulling it out of his pocket to show me. "Excellent," I drawl, "let's go."

"Where are we going?" he asks, trailing after me. I turn around and smile at him, "Home."

* * *

He feels so good in my arms, all loved up and soft and kittenish. I brush his temple with my lips and he wriggles closer, humming into my chest. I pull back to look at him, and whisper, "Ask me." He looks at me in confusion. "Ask me." I repeat, smiling softly at him, and this time he gets it, and his eyes light up in an answering smile.

He half turns in my arms to reach for the ring, still sitting all innocent-like on the bedside table, and I let go of him, knowing the damage his angular body can inflict. Kneeling up on the bed, he pulls me up to kneel facing him, takes my left hand, looks at me and, bless his heart, blushing to the roots of his messy hair, he does ask me, "Will you marry me?"

My heart fit to explode with love for him, I say a barely audible "Yes." And then the ring is on my finger, and he is in my arms, and...

But that's another story.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His lips release me, and I melt against him, reeling from the hunger and passion in his kiss, our breath forming little puffs of steam as we pant, coatless, in the cold air outside the restaurant.

"You'd better still have that ring." he says, once he catches his breath, and I fish it out of my pocket, giddy with happiness, giggling for no reason as I hold it out for him to see. "Excellent," he says, "let's go." and I whimper at the tone of his voice.  
  
Taking my hand, he starts to walk towards the car. "Where are we going?" I ask, still a little out of breath, putting the ring back in my pocket as I trail after him. Not that I'm reluctant, you understand, I'd follow him to the end of the earth and jump right after him if he asked. Just curious, and a little confused at the abrupt end to our evening.

He turns to me without stopping and, with a smile that almost stops my heart, says, "Home."

Oh.

"Keys!" He demands once we get to the car, hand outstretched. I toss him the keys without argument; tonight he can have anything he wants. Anything. He's already granted me the one thing I've been dreaming of for months.

* * * * *

Months. That's how long it took me to gather the courage to go through with it. Months of pulling the ring out of its hiding place when he wasn't around, holding it to my heart like a lovelorn teenager, imagining what it would look like on his finger. Months of putting it back with a sigh, too scared to go through with it, petrified with fear that he'd turn me down.

I'd found it in a little jeweller's shop in Prague's old city during our last tour, while on one of my not-so-frequent-anymore solitary roams. I'd given security the slip during one of the 'official' tourist jaunts, tired of museums and churches, and needing some space away from the others.

The moment I saw the ring in the shop's window, plain yet compellingly beautiful, sitting in pride of place on a black velvet cushion in the centre of the display, I thought of him. I have no idea what arcane thought association process happened inside this weird brain of mine, but the long and short of it was that I wasn't able to walk away and shrug it off. I had to buy the ring. I just had to.

No, I wasn't thinking of marriage at the time. We'd never really talked about it. It wasn't even on our radar; we were too wrapped up in one another, each of us secure in the other's love and commitment to want or need the extra step. And the libertarian in me scoffed at the idea that our love, our commitment, our life together, needed the validation of some kind of official recognition.

As I strolled back to the hotel, bemusedly stroking the little box in my pocket, I couldn't understand the compulsion that had made me buy it and then retrace my steps ten minutes later to get the jeweller to engrave both our names on it.

It never left my pocket during that leg of the tour, transferred from one pair of trousers to the next like a talisman, a fair bit of juggling and sleight of hand involved in keeping it from him. And the thing is, as it sat in my pocket for all those weeks leading up to our much needed Christmas break, it seemed to get heavier with significance.

I'd take it out during the rare moments when I was on my own to stroke its etched design, or hold it up to watch the light play on our names engraved on its smooth inner surface. And whenever I did, I thought of him.

And then came the day, right out of the blue, when I looked at it and I didn't just think of him. I pictured him wearing the ring, and my heart just about exploded inside my chest. It would appear that my libertarian self had been overthrown, and I'd been taken over by this romantic fool who actually wanted to marry the love of his life.

That was it. From that day on, it was all I could think about, but all my insecurities surfaced whenever a moment presented itself and I tried to open my mouth to ask the question, so the months passed and the ring was still in its box, passed from pocket to pocket to pocket.

Eventually, sick of myself, I took him out on a date, and I very nearly made a right mess of it, but in the end he put me out of my misery and said yes, and I don't think my feet have touched the ground since.

* * * * *

The sound of the door opening brings me out of my reverie, "What are you doing sitting there daydreaming, you weird little freak?" he asks in the fondly exasperated tone he reserves just for me, "You're supposed to be getting dressed." Walking over, he plonks himself on the bed next to me, taking my hand in his.

My eyes widening at his black on black, body hugging outfit, I smile at him, "You look gorgeous." and he grins at the compliment. "Thank you. But why are you still in your ratty trackies?"

Making a face, I poke at the pile of clothes on the floor with my toe, "I couldn't make up my mind what to wear." He laughs, shaking his head, "Want me to choose for you?" My eyes light up in relief, piling blessings on his head. He knows I hate having to primp up. "Oh, god, yes!" I say fervently, and he laughs again, ruffling my hair. "Your wish is my command."

He makes to get up, but I pull him back down, "Not yet. First I should run a quality check on your outfit," I say, my fingers unbuttoning his vest, "make sure everything is in good order." Eyes dancing with amusement, he slaps at my hands, "No way, I know how this movie ends, and we are already..." I don't give a toss whether we're late or not, so I just kiss him until he stops trying to get the vest back on and his hands slip under the hoodie seeking my skin.

I let go of his lips and grin at him, "Ready to submit to the quality inspection?" He slaps the back of my head, muttering "Idiot." under his breath, but he's grinning back at me, and now it's his fingers that are undoing the buttons of his shirt as I pull the hoodie over my head.

I tackle him to the bed, and in seconds I have undone his belt and opened his fly, all the while kissing my way down his body from his mouth to his belly while he squirms under me. "Lift!" I command, and he obediently lifts his hips off the bed so I can pull his trousers—good boy, he's not wearing boxers—down his skinny legs.

I stop for a moment to look at him then, the sight of his body always a thing of wonder to me, even after all these years, my hand stroking the soft skin of his inner thighs. Knowing how I love to look at him, he waits patiently, smiling up at me, his breath quickening as my eyes roam his body.

I can't stop looking at him, his bright smile, the way the light plays on the gold of his hair, the warm look of love in his eyes... He laughs, "You're staring, love." and I shake myself and laugh with him, filled with sheer joy that he is in my life.

Covering his body with mine, I hold myself on my forearms, hovering over his mouth until, saying, "Don't tease." he reaches up to kiss me and wraps his arms around me, hands caressing down my back and slipping under the elastic of my trackies to cup my bum.

"You're overdressed." he says, smiling against my lips and pushing the fabric down as far as it will go. Rolling to the side, I kick at the damned things until they come off while he watches shaking his head at my antics. Once I'm free, he rolls on his side away from me, and my eyes widen in surprise, but I waste no time moving to align my body to his until I'm spooning him.

I kiss down the nape of his neck and across his shoulders, my hand splayed on his belly, and he arches his back, pushing his arse out until my cock is neatly tucked between his cheeks. I smile into his neck; normally I'm the one pulling that trick, the one who gets to be cherished, opened, entered, filled.

Sometimes, though, our roles are reversed. Times, like today, when his love for me overhelms him, when he needs me to be the one cherishing him, opening him, entering him, filling him, and I love it when he is like this, soft and pliable under me.

I rock my hips, my cock sliding smoothly along his crack, and he whimpers, wriggling his bum, trying to get me inside him. "Slow down, love," I say, nibbling his ear, "I want to take my time with you." He whimpers again, but he nods, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

Slipping my hand under his thigh, I push his knee up, and then I slide down his body, kissing my way from the nape of his neck to the small of his back while he squirms in anticipation. Smiling at the eager way in which he pushes his skinny arse out, I hold his hips and nibble on his buttocks until he's begging, whispering "Please... Please..." like a litany.

Without warning, I lick along his crease, lingering just a bit on his hole, and his keening moan makes me want to give up on taking my time and rip right into him. But that would be cheating him, so I close my eyes briefly, breathe, and give him what he needs, what I need.

I lick again, and again, and again, savouring his rich dark flavour, each time spending a little longer on the ring of muscle until it relaxes and flutters, avid to be filled, and I push my tongue in, his muscles tightening around me as he screams into the pillow. Pulling out slowly, I plunge in deeper, creating a seal with my lips and thrusting in and out, deeper with each thrust until he is a mewling mess.

I pull out with a final lick and a kiss and he whimpers his protest at being emptied, but settles as my cock, now rock hard, slips between his legs on my way back up. I wrap my arms around him and he wiggles his arse impatiently until the tip is kissing his hole, and then stills, panting expectantly.

I enter him slowly, feeling his heat envelop me and his muscles grip me, and I grit my teeth to stop myself from coming. "I'm not going to last long, love." I say, and he giggles, his arse doing sinful things to my cock, "Me neither, you evil bastard. Go for your life."

I do. I plunge into him until I'm balls deep, cutting his giggling short, and start a fast rocking motion, his arse pushing back as I thrust into him, and his muscles contracting to milk me as I pull out, while my hand works his cock in time with my thrusts.

Just as my balls tighten and white heat starts to radiate out from my belly, he tenses in my arms and, clenching hard around me, spills all over my hand while I empty myself inside him. Spent, I tighten my arms around him, kissing along the line of his jaw to his ear to whisper, "I love you." and he sighs contentedly, "I love you."

The sound of his text alert rouses us from our postcoital daze, and I reluctantly pull out of him so he can roll over to reach for the phone on the bedside table. "Oh, shit," he says, "look at the time!”

With a sigh, he pushes up on his elbows, looking back at me, "We'd better get going, we are late, even by our standards." I grin at him, "You'd better have first shower, then, I don't trust myself in there with you."

With an eye roll just for me, he gets up, pulls some carefully folded clothes out of a drawer and throws them at me on his way to the bathroom, saying over his shoulder, "That's what you're wearing, by the way."

I watch him open mouthed as he sashays away wiggling his arse, and then smile like a fool when I look down and see the clothes he's chosen for me. Red shirt. Black trousers. Belt. And in the shirt's pocket, a black eyeliner pencil.

* * * * *

I park the car in the first parking space I see, and I get out, going around to open his door and hand him out of the car like the gentleman I am. Hand in hand, we rush around the corner and down the block to the terrace house with the red door.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I have a chance, a hulking figure taking up all the space in the doorway. Before either of us can say a thing, he's marching us down the hall, saying, "No, don't tell me. Let me guess. You were shagging your brains out like the brainless little bunnies that you are, right?" Normally, I'd have a twatty reply, but today his face tells me that would be a very bad idea, so we just look at one another sheepishly and nod. "Christ, what are you, fifteen?"

By this time we are at the end of the hallway, and finally he lets go of our arms, smothers us in a bear hug, and opens the door to the garden for us, saying gruffly, "Trust you two idiots to be late to your own wedding!"

 


	3. Commitment

**Note:** In the UK, same-sex marriage, sadly, does not exist. Instead there is a legally recognised 'civil partnership' which provides almost the same protection under the law as marriage does for heterosexual couples. Call me a sentimental old fool, but I wanted our boys to be properly married, so I have bent reality just a wee smidgeon to make it so.

  
We walk into the garden to be greeted by the smiles and eye rolls of the handful of friends and family members waiting to witness and celebrate with us. We've agreed on a quiet, understated and private ceremony, feeling that this commitment we are about to make is too personal, too intimate to make a production of it.

So it is just the two of us walking casually hand in hand towards the small gazebo at the end of the garden, stopping here and there to chat, laugh, hug and be hugged, a trail of excited kids in our wake.

And through it all, we never once let go of one another, hands held as if glued together, eyes seeking the other's at every opportunity, deliriously happy smiles on our faces, until we finally reach our destination and turn to stand facing one another in front of the celebrant.

In a weird role exchange, he is the steadier of the two, looking composed, serene, peaceful, not a twitch in sight, while butterflies take flight in my stomach, nerves and excitement finally finally catch up with me. Suddenly I'm feeling a little wobbly and light-headed, and I look at him in panic. Taking both of my hands in his with a reassuring squeeze, he leans in to kiss my lips softly, whispering, "Breathe."

His touch grounds me. I close my eyes and take a shaky breath, letting it out in a long sigh. When my eyes open again, his face is alight with love and happiness, his stunning deep blue eyes set off by the smudged eyeliner and shining as though lit from within, and his wonky-toothed smile is so wide that it has two sets of dimples framing it, eyes and nose crinkling adorably as he looks at me.

He looks so beautiful that it hurts, and my mouth goes dry with needing him. I forget where we are, forget the eyes that are focused on us, forget the celebrant standing not two paces away from us, and pull him to me, letting go of his hands to frame his face with mine.

It starts as a soft brush of lips, sweet and tender, our breath mingling in a sigh but, before we know it I am licking his lower lip and he opens to me and his hands are fisting in my hair and I can feel his smile as he kisses me back and he is pressing himself against me and...

The sound of laughter, groans and catcalls, including a very loud "Get a room you two!” finally filters through our lust-filled bubble, and we break apart, flushing like teenagers caught snogging behind the bike shed, smiling sheepishly at one another.

I spare a sideways look at the celebrant, and I breathe a sigh of relief at her wide grin, and giggle when she winks at me, saying, "Ready to get this show on the road?" I nod, grinning back, thinking we chose well. "Right, then," she goes on, raising her voice so everybody can hear her, "it would appear that our two love birds are ready to start, would the witnesses please come forward?"

As the garden falls still, our two best friends step up to stand next to us, and she looks at each of us in turn, "Do you have the rings?" I have a moment's panic, feverishly patting my pockets as he rolls his eyes at me. I spent weeks scouring London's jewellers until I finally found a ring that I felt was worthy of him. Surely I haven't lost the damned thing?

Please god, please, please...

A hand appears at my side, palm up, holding the ring, and I take it with a sigh of relief and a brief smile, thanking the universe for best friends who are on the ball.

"Ok, we're all set." says the celebrant, "We are here to witness and celebrate marriage in its simplest, purest form, two people who love one another affirming their commitment before family and friends." She pauses, smiling brightly at us, "My role here today is to ensure that this commitment you are about to make is recognised in law, but this is your show, so you now have the floor."

This is it. Oh, god, this is it. We're doing this. We're actually doing this. We're getting married.

OH. MY. GOD.

WE'RE GETTING MARRIED!!!!!

I'm brought out of my private, rather gay, and incredibly blond flailing session by his hand in mine.

Ok. Here we go.

Looking at me with a soft smile on his face, he takes a breath, and his voice rings steady and clear, "I fell in love with you when we were barely into our teens, and I have loved you every single second since that moment. I gave myself to you all those years ago, and you own me, mind, body and soul. You are my life. Will you take me as your husband for the rest of our lives?”

I smile at him through blurry eyes, nodding wildly, and he squeezes my hand, grinning at me, "You need to speak up, love." Oh. Right. I blush to the roots of my hair and the words come out in a rush, "Yes. Oh, god, yes, I will."

Laughter and applause erupts around us, but I don't even care, because he's putting the ring on my finger, and then, looking up at me from under his eyelashes, brings my hand to his lips and kisses the ring. Suddenly I can't breathe, and I cling to his hand, my eyes closing as I drown in the rush of emotion. "Easy, love," he says gently, his hand warm on my wet cheek, "stay with me, we're not done yet."

No, we're not done yet. He's done his part, now I have to do mine. Time to man up.

I turn my face to kiss the palm of his hand and open my eyes, squaring my shoulders with a nod and, with an encouraging smile and a kiss to the tip of my nose, he steps back, my hand still held in his.

"I love you." I start, my voice unsteady, breaking on 'you'. No, that won't do. He deserves better from me. I stand straighter and start again, this time my voice strong and ringing with purpose and conviction as I look into his eyes, "I love you. I have loved you for over half of my life, and every day that passes I love you more than I did the day before. You complete me. You are my courage and my strength, my comfort and my joy; my lover, my soulmate, my best friend. Will you also be my husband for the rest of our lives?”

With eyes that sparkle and a radiant smile that lights up the place, the love of my life agrees to become my husband, and the stunned, incredulous joy on his face as I put the ring on his finger is something that I will treasure every single moment of the rest of my life.

I can't stop the idiotic grin that spreads across my face as I look at him—my husband—and he lifts wide eyes off his ring finger with a visible effort to grin back at me, too caught up in one another to be aware of the chatter and applause and the kids' high pitched hurrahs.

Our celebrant's voice brings us back to the moment, "We have all witnessed the vows and rings exchanged today as a token of marriage. As a celebrant, I am licensed to record this marriage according to current law, and it is my great pleasure and privilege to do so." she pauses to smile at us, "I will need the happy couple and the two witnesses to stay behind and sign the marriage certificate. This closes the formal part of today's ceremony." Her smile turns into a grin that has more than a bit of smirk in it as she continues, " ** _Now_** would be the traditional time for you two to kiss."

Before she has finished that sentence, the runty little freak I am now married to launches himself at me and, clinging to me with his legs clasped around my waist and his arms tight around my neck, kisses me as if his life depended on it. And then kisses me some more for good measure. With a last loud smack of lips, he leans back in my arms to grin at me like a complete loon, saying, "Hello, husband."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Couch

We are married. 

He's my husband.

Those two sentences spin idly through my brain as I stare at his ring on my finger, hardly daring to breathe or remove my eyes from it, afraid that I'll wake up to find it gone, that it has all been one of my fanciful day dreams. 

I can feel his eyes on me, though, and I reluctantly tear mine away from the ring to meet them, their grey warm and clear, shining with love, fine crinkle lines around them as he grins widely at me.

The celebrant's words echo faintly through the loud rush of my blood pulsing in my ears, 'marriage' and 'kiss' the only ones that stick.

Without stopping to think, I jump on him like a little kid and snog him breathless. I would gladly kiss him for hours, but our loved ones' laughter and clapping and cheering finally filters through and I let go of him with a final peck to his lips and lean back to grin at him, my heart doing somersaults in my chest as I say, "Hello, husband."

The look on his face at my words is priceless; happiness, and shock, and incredulity, and pride, and love, and a fierce possessiveness warring for pride of place, and I fervently hope someone has had the presence of mind to take a picture. His arms tighten around me, and his eyes blur with tears as he whispers, "Hello, husband."

Before either of us can take it any further, we're enveloped in a double bear hug that comes with stereo sarcastic commentary, "Congratulations, you two, I'm impressed, you nearly had a shag in the middle of your own wedding." "I love you guys, and I'm really happy for you, but I wish you'd get a bloody room, the sight of you is sickening." 

Yep, that's our best men/witnesses. Not the subtlest of blokes, I grant you, but the best of friends, and our support network and cheerleading squad rolled into one. My husband—will this ever get old? I wonder—lets go of me so I am standing on my own two feet again, and very maturely answers, "Bite me, you fuckers." Which predictably results in a whirlwind of good natured insults being exchanged and the four of us rolling on the ground in what can only be described as a puppy huddle. 

My mum's fondly exasperated voice breaks the huddle, "Oh, for the love of god, will you lot ever grow up?" and we all look up with unrepentant grins on our faces and a collective "Nope." Mum frowns at us, "Come on, behave, the celebrant is waiting for you upstairs to sign the papers." She pointedly looks at me before going on, "Unless you'd prefer to remain single?" 

Ok, that kind of motivates us. We all scramble up, dusting off each others' clothes in a routine that has been perfected over more than twenty years, and make our slow way through hugs and kisses and congratulations to the study upstairs, where the celebrant is patiently waiting for us, the paperwork neatly laid out on the desk ready for signing.

Having different dominant hands means that we don't have to let go of one another's hands while we sign, and I'm glad of that little quirk of ours, because seeing both our names on the papers makes it even more real than the ring on my finger, and suddenly I'm hyperventilating like a boss. 

I freeze with the pen poised over the paper, and he turns his head, because my other hand is probably crushing every bone in his, I'm holding on so tight. He takes one look at me and in the same shaky breath he has me wrapped in his arms, holding me up while my legs turn to jelly. 

Fantastic, I'm about to faint like a girl. Hs voice, soft and gentle, has a hint of a smile in it, "Hey, hey, hey, none of that now, at least not until you've signed on the dotted line, love." He knows just the right thing to say. A giggle bubbles up, and it washes away the anxiety attack as it bursts out.

He laughs with me, kissing my forehead and letting go of me, but keeps his arms loosely around me—just in case I keel over after all, I guess. "You ok?" I nod, smiling up at him, and he smirks at me, turning me around and pointing me towards the desk with a pat to my bum, "Good, now get your skinny arse back there and sign the bloody papers." 

A muffled laugh morphs into a cough, and I look up to see the celebrant sitting primly at the desk staunchly trying to keep a straight face. The other two are not being quite so restrained, holding on to one another and guffawing like the demented evil sods they are. I poke my tongue at the lot of them—yeah, mature, I know—and finally seal the deal by signing my name beside his. 

The demented evil sods sign after me, and it's done. We are officially, in the eyes of the world and the law, married. With a minimum of fuss, the celebrant gathers the paperwork, shaking our hands with a few words of congratulations, and takes her leave, ushered out by our best men. And just like that, we are alone, smiling at one another like kids on Christmas morning, and I can't stop looking at him. My husband. 

Nope, it doesn't get old. 

"My husband." The words leave my lips in a sighed breath, soft, reverent, full of wonder, and his smile becomes incandescent, his hand pulling at mine to bring me closer for a kiss that has my toes curling inside my shoes while I moan into his mouth, desire flaring inside me like a wildfire. I press my body into his, urgent, demanding, and he breaks the kiss with a deep growl, "Couch. Now."

By the time we cross the five paces to the white leather couch, our clothes are scattered behind us, and he pushes me unceremoniously down onto the cushions to kneel between my legs. With a feral smile that has me hard and panting in two seconds flat, he pushes my legs up to hook them over his shoulders and slides his arms under me to lift and support my hips.

Before I have time to even take a breath, his tongue is licking along my crease and pushing at my hole, and my hands are scrabbling on the soft leather, my fingernails digging in as I try not to scream at the onslaught of sensation. His tongue finds its way inside me and starts pumping in and out, the obscene slurping noises he's making to get me nice and slick going straight to my cock, and all my good intentions to be quiet going straight out of the window.

I whimper and moan like a bitch in heat, my heels digging into his back as I try to arch closer, get him deeper into me, and he lets go of me, looking down my body, "Shush, you little slut, you're going to bring the whole wedding party rushing up here thinking I'm murdering you or something." 

That sets me to giggling, the idea of our mums rushing in and catching us at it is way too funny, and with a sigh and a muttered "Nutter!" he lowers me back onto the cushions. "You done?" he asks wryly, lying down next to me to spoon me and running his hand down my belly to circle my cock, "I was thinking of gagging you, you know." 

Ok, that kind of cuts through the giggles and brings me back into the zone, my cock jumping in his hand. "Really?" I ask hopefully. "Mmmmm," he hums into the crook of my neck, "I think it could be arranged." Reaching over me to snag his black tie from where it's lying on the floor, he props himself on an elbow, rolls it up and, saying, "Open." sticks it in my mouth. 

"Right, we're all set," he smiles at me, kissing the corner of my lips, "on your back, my love, I want to see you." I eagerly do as I'm told, and he settles between my thighs, grinding into me, our cocks sliding against one another until I see stars behind my closed eyelids, my moans muffled by the gag. 

"Perfect, you can scream all you want now," he purrs in my ear, "and I promise you, you'll want to." I whimper at the growl he puts into his promise, and wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, begging with my eyes. Lining himself up, he presses in just a bit, chuckling darkly when I whimper and arch against him. 

"I love it when you're like this," he says, planting his elbows on either side of my head and pushing up on them to look at me, "open and ready and panting for me." My eyes flutter closed, but he's having none of that, "Open your eyes," he commands, "I told you, I want to see you." 

He waits until my eyes are on his, and then he enters me, stretching me as he fills me slowly, his hands cradling my face, thumbs tenderly caressing my cheekbones, his eyes like molten lead, hot and heavy on me. Silken and hard and smooth, he sears a path into me, making me struggle to keep my eyes from shutting tight in ecstasy.

Once he is fully inside he stops and smiles down at me, "Thank you." I look a question at him, and his smile widens, "For making my dreams come true." My eyes do close then, and for a moment I fear I'm going to choke on the tie, because, damn him, he is perfect, and he is mine, and he takes my breath away.

"I love you." he says and, sliding his arms under me to grip my shoulders, starts to move. It is a good thing I'm gagged, or I'd scream the house down, because he knows my body better than his own, and the practised roll of his hips with each deep thrust hits my spot every time. 

This is not going to take long, the way he's driving into me. Just as that thought slowly swirls through my lust-addled brain, he braces himself on one arm, bringing his hand between our bodies to grip my cock, saying, "Come for me, my love."

"Guys, everyone is getting ready to go down to the p..." The voice that starts outside the door and ends in a strangled squeak as the door opens sets off a fateful chain of events. Startled, we tense up, my inner muscles clenching around him while his hand tightens on my cock, and the inevitable happens. He comes hard inside me, and I shoot my load all over his hand, and my belly, and the couch, our moans and muffled cries of ecstasy unable to obliterate the pained groaning issuing from the doorway, "My eyes... My eyes..."

Ooooops!!! Caught in flagrante by our best man.

I spit the gag, and we collapse on the couch, giggling uncontrollably, too high on endorphins to realise the danger we're in. "Are you two insane?" he screeches, fixing us with his best 'dad' glare, "My children could have walked in on you! I fucking walked in on you and now I'm scarred for life. I swear to god, my kids have had goldfish with more sense than the two of you put together. You could have at least locked the do..." 

At this point his voice breaks in a strangled groan and, when he manages to go on, his voice is at least two octaves higher than usual, "Is that come on my fucking couch?" That sends us into paroxysms of laughter, and we hold onto one another trying not to roll onto the floor while he looms over us. 

Eventually, I manage a squeaky "Yes." and he pinches his nose, "Right now I'd gleefully strangle you with my own hands, and no jury in the land would find me guilty." Taking a deep breath, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the door, "I'm going to leave before I actually give in to the temptation to turn this into the wedding day massacre. Now get dressed and get your skinny arses, which I didn't need to see with this level of detail thank you very much, downstairs so we can take this party to the pub." 

Stopping at the doorway, he looks back at us, "Oh, by the way, you're buying me a new couch." He leaves on that parting shot, muttering, "Fucking bunny rabbits." and slamming the door. Hard.

That does it. We just can't stop laughing, the kind of hysterical laughter about nothing much at all that you only normally get from lame jokes in the middle of a physics class, and my sides hurt so much I can barely breathe. "Husband?" I giggle into his chest. "Yes, husband?" he answers, squeezing me tight, and I can feel the rumble of his laughter against my skin. "I think we should keep the couch."


End file.
